One Block at a Time

The hill begins immediately. My lungs object at once. The old voice says turn back before anyone sees. No one is watching. This is not a film. No music gathers underneath. There is one steep pavement, one loose lace, one body learning effort. I walk to the red postbox. Then to the parked van. Then to the tree split by last winter. Progress looks unimpressive from across the street. From inside my chest, it has weight and weather. I stop without quitting. I breathe without apologizing. The top remains distant. Distance is not refusal. I choose the next lamppost. The next one after that. The hill gives nothing away.